


Post Debate No. 9

by poorbasil



Category: Political RPF - US 20th c.
Genre: Kissing, M/M, bi-partisan kissing, political commentators, some blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 12:01:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10662171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poorbasil/pseuds/poorbasil
Summary: AU following the events of the infamous exchange between political commentators and rivals, William F. Buckley Jr. and Gore Vidal.Inspired by "The Best of Enemies" 10/10 reccomend





	Post Debate No. 9

He tried to tell himself that the words stung less than the punch, but the throbbing currently radiating from his nose said otherwise. Vidal stumbled backwards from the force of the impact, his body colliding with hard wall behind him. He felt blood trickling down his face, seeping out of the spaces in between his fingers as he unsuccessfully tried to halt the bleeding. A drop of red plopped onto the gaudy carpet that was hastily thrown down for their make-shift studio, but neither Vidal nor the man hovering just a few close feet in front of him found that they particularly cared about soiled property at the moment. Ruined cheaply purchased carpet was inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.

The intensity in Buckley’s eyes was near palpable and Vidal heard himself inhale a sharp breath, the noise sounding foreign to his own ears and coming out more akin to a choking sound do to his ruptured blood vessels. He felt as though he was pinned against the wall by the intensity of Buckley’s stare, unable to do as much as shuffle his feet awkwardly, let along attempt to flee the scene of attack. His eyes shifted momentarily to Buckley’s still-clenched fist, and the notion that another blow might be eminent passed before the forefront of his mind. He forced his eyes to remain open and suppressed the nervous twitch threatening to disrupt him from presenting a calm composure as he readied his body for another punch.

But it never came. He saw out of the corner of his eyes, Buckley’s fist slowly unclenching, and he noticed for the first time that his rival’s knuckles were stained red. 

 _That’s my blood,_ he thought in somewhat of a daze, watching as Buckley examined his own hand. His eyes seemed as if they were glazed over, as if he was seeing the red tinge coating his inflamed skin from where his knuckles made contact with Vidal's face, but also not processing the reality of it at the same time. 

The corridor was empty. None of the frantic and frazzled energy that dominated the live studio room was present. Vidal’s ragged breath filled the room, the noise sounding incredibly loud to its owner’s ears. 

Buckley himself was in a daze, overcome with the feeling that this moment could not possibly be real. The words had been enough. It had been entirely uncalled for, unprecedented even in a live broadcasted debate. He had just been so overwhelmed with emotion, revealing in the heat of the moment and the intensity of the exchange of wits and politics, that the words just tumbled out from his unchecked lips before he could regulate himself. It was an unprecedented action on his part. He rarely let himself carry forth such ad-hominine attacks whilst in debate, and especially not on live television in such a manner like he just did.

The words had been enough. But his actions were unforgivable! He was utterly furious. At himself. At Vidal. At ABC. Hell, he was even furious at the goddamn convention itself. His eyes drifted to the man standing before him. His political rival and best enemy. A trickle of blood was running down the side of Vidal's hand as it shook, attempting to stifle the stream of viscous liquid pouring out of his surely broken nose.

A beat paused before Buckley’s mind was made up.

He grabbed Vidal by the arm, the very same arm extended to serve as a feeble shield to protect his injured face. He heard Vidal make a noncommittal sound, whether of  protest or shock, Buckley could not determine, but he tightened his grip around Vidal's wrist all the same, practically dragging the man to follow him.

Vidal's brain was virtually screaming in dissent, telling himself to wrench his hand back from Buckley, to run in the opposite direction, to press charges. He had the potential to ruin the subject which he devoted his most hostile thoughts to. Just a name and a snapshot of his bloodied face was all he needed to tell reporters and Buckley's reputation would be in tatters.

The malicious, and arguably justified thoughts swarmed within his mind, yet he allowed himself to be pulled into one of the empty studio rooms down the corridor all the same. Barely a beat passed before Vidal felt hands push up against his shoulders as he tumbled down unceremoniously into a plastic chair. The unsteady object wobbled threateningly with the unforeseen force of his weight but Vidal was able to right himself just as he heard the door fall shut. He tried to utter a curse at his predicament, but the words died on his lips as his nose throbbed with a renewed fervor and his hand instantly rose to resume its position from before it had yanked away.

“Shut it,” he heard Buckley say, his voice stern and tinged with his signature aristocratic drawl.

But Vidal was acutely acquainted with the multiple minute changes in tone that voice could express in a given situation. There was something peculiar about the manner in which those two simple words were spoken, and Vidal could have sworn that he detected a tremor of sorts in the man's pitch, a slight imperfection that marred the usually assertive quality of Buckley’s voice.

 He catalogued the information away; he was definitely not in a state considered fit enough to engage in the questioning of the man who just knocked the wind out of him mere minutes ago.

He watched as Buckley rummaged through the meekly decorated studio room, a room he know identified correctly as the make-up prep room. He closed his eyes, letting his head fall back to rest on the head of the chair and listened to the sound of  bottles clinking against the porcelain rim of the little sink. He heard the quick rush of water for a moment before the faucet was switch off. When he opened his eyes, he saw Buckley standing in front of him, a small damp towel held limply in his right hand as he regarded Vidal with an expression that was equally as inquisitive as it was sharp.

Vidal met his gaze with a look he hoped came off as disinterred but he knew the effect was incredibly diminished by the line of blood dripping down his face.

"Just-" Buckley said, and Vidal didn't understand the purpose of the uttered word as Buckley moved forward into a half crouched position, his arm reaching out, hand stopping in mid-air briefly before landing on Vidal's face.

 He felt the warmth of the cloth against his skin and couldn't suppress the involuntary shutter that followed the unexpected sensation.

“Please,” Buckley croaked out, and Vidal assumed that the other man had misinterpreted his reaction as a sign  he wasn't going to permit Buckley's touch compliantly. Still, regardless of his misinterpretation, and aside from the fact that Vidal could not even atone for his own allowance of Buckley's actions, the other's reaction was peculiar. There was something in his rival's voice that Vidal suspected he had never been formerly exposed to. A tinge of regret perhaps, or that of remorse, an emotion possibly hidden underneath Buckley's firm disposition and perpetual thin grimace.

Vidal shook his head at the thought; it couldn't be, Buckley didn't posses an inkling of the necessary sentiment required to produce feelings of repentance at his own actions, whether unjustly prompted or not. Vidal, however, immediately regret his own movement a moment ago as his nose flared up in renewed pain. 

“Don’t move,” Buckley commanded softly, his other hand snaking up from its former position dangling uselessly at his side to rest upon Vidal’s knee, his grip unrelenting and yet somehow, in the strangest sense that Vidal could not quite pinpoint, it was a reassuring weight against his clothed skin.

The hand holding the towel moved to Vidal’s face and his assaulter began to wipe up the bloody residue his punch had resulted in. Buckley's movements were surprisingly gentle, light back and forth motions across Vidal's face. The friction of the rough fabric scrubbing the drying blood burned slightly, but Vidal chose to ignore that marginally uncomfortable sensation. Instead, he focused on his breathing, his mouth formed a little "o" shape as his breath came out in quiet huff. His eyes started straight ahead, seemingly intent on affixing themselves to the little white buttons on Buckley's dress shirt, not willing himself to try and look up at whatever expression Buckley was making above him.

The moment seemed to last for an eternity, and yet, when it was over, Vidal's skin felt cold at the loss of touch and he moved instinctively towards the hand holding the rag hovering mere inches away from his face. Buckley, for his part, either didn't notice the small movement, or chose to disregard it as inconsequential. He reached for Vidal’s hand, the one he had been using to cup his nose and wiped his fingers clean, slowly taking his time to run the rag over each digit in repetitive motions. 

Vidal watched, his eyes fixed on the scene transpiring before him. Perhaps it was an over-stimulation of his senses; no less than fifteen minutes ago, he had just finished debating this most detestable ignoramus of a man and received a sock in the face for his efforts, and yet, he couldn’t suppress the feeling of warmth coursing through his body as Buckley slid the cloth over each of his fingers to remove the lingering evidence of his own misdeed.

He was still staring at the place where Buckley had been when he heard the other man speak. 

“You’re going to have get that set properly.”

A beat paused before the words registered properly, "What?” Vidal said, his mind still in a stupor. 

“Your nose, of course, you’re going to have to get it set by a professional. I don’t want to risk it myself.” 

“I- oh, yes, my nose. Of course.” 

Buckley nodded, his intense gaze fixed on Vidal, the rag dangling from his hand as he made to stand. Vidal rose in time with him and they simply stood there, watching each other. Vidal wanted to break the silence, unsure exactly what to say or rather, what needed to be said. Luckily, however, he didn't have to conjure up a variety of hallow words to fill the empty space as Buckley took the initiative to open the conversation.  

“I- Buckley began, and then stopped short of continuing, and Vidal reconsidered his last thought. Perhaps he would have to contribute some sort of parting words, or something at least, in order to alleviate the oddity of their current situation.

"I didn’t- I don’t-” Buckley started again, faltering as he tried to articulate the exact sentiment he wished to convey, to say the words which he couldn't seem to voice coherently.

Vidal cocked an eyebrow, an expression Buckley was acutely familiar with, one that never failed to make his blood boil.

"It appears," Vidal said, his smooth voice oozing self-assuredness despite his current predicament, "that Mr. William F. Buckley Jr., the man who has something to say about everything, even that which he has no business commenting on, has found himself in the incredibly foreign state of speechlessness."

His eyes widened to adopt that doe-like appearance Vidal found both dopey and beguiling.

"I-" Buckley tried again, but he cut himself off abruptly, too late however, for Vidal to realize his mistake.

"Forget it. I would request that you don't press charges, but, like the unwilling martyr for the cause of patriotism against indoctrinated degenerates such as yourself, I am resigned to my ruefully deserved fate."

With that, Buckley turned on his heels, stuffing the dirtied rag into his trouser pocket with all the dignity he could muster. The thought that he was now going to have to get his pants dry cleaned filtered briefly through his mind before it was squashed by the mounting furor he was trying to prevent from uncapping for the second time that day.

Buckley made for the door in a few quick strides, his hand reaching for the bronze little knob.

“Wait!” Vidal called out before he could stop himself. 

Buckley paused in the act, his hand stilled in a hover over the doorknob. Vidal's voice as loud in the empty room, a far cry from the soft, almost muttering voice of Buckley as he attended to Vidal just moments earlier. Buckley turned around, his hand dropping lank at his side. His face was impassive, or so it appeared, but Vidal knew better than to simply judge the complexity of Buckley's thoughts based of facial expressions, as they often wrongfully portrayed the man's true thoughts.

“I- I’m not going to tell anybody,” Vidal said, and Buckley’s wide-eyed look of shock did not even come close to the surprise Vidal felt at his own words, but he couldn’t stop now. 

“I’m not going to tell anybody,” he repeated, his feet edging closer and closer until he was barley a foot away from Buckley.

He looked up at the other man, his face still sporting that indifferent, if only vaguely intrigued look. Vidal weighted his chances in his mind, the outcome of what he was considering. Oh, the debauchery of his inner conscious, just skimming it would have been enough to leave Buckley shaken for days and twitching with dissent and barely contained contempt. He considered Buckley for a moment, the man was waiting for Vidal to say something, to do anything. If he misjudged the reality of this situation, Vidal knew that he would be writing his own end.

Buckley was waiting. Vidal exhaled a breath he had not even realized he was holding in. He wasn't going to keep him waiting any longer.

“I won’t tell anybody- as long as you don’t tell anybody about this.”

“Wha-” Buckley began, but before he could finish speaking he felt the soft press of lips against his and his wide eyes fell shut on their own accord. 

Vidal ignored the pain in his nose as he pressed his face harder against Buckley’s, effectively deepening the kiss. He ignored the sirens blazing in his brain telling him to stop, that this could ruin him, that this _would_ ruin him, for life at that.

He tried to ignore it all, but he could not ignore the way Buckley’s slightly chapped lips felt against his own. _It's probably because he licks them too much,_ Vidal thought. It was chaste and soft, just his lips against Buckley's in a light press. His own mouth ever so slightly tugged at Buckley's lower lip, gently prying the other man's lips apart but not daring to take it any further than simply sucking on the sensitive skin, his teeth tenderly grazing over the skin.

After a moment, Vidal pulled away, perhaps because he was out of air, or because a growing feeling of terror at Buckley's uncharacteristic silence was seeping into his heart. Their faces were still so close, too close, and Vidal could scarcely bare to look directly at Buckley. He was, as he alleged Buckley of before, at a loss for words.  He wasn't sure what he was expecting from this rash act. Yelling, most likely, and a slew of based synonyms thrown at him that conveyed the same sentiment Buckley had so graciously referred to him as during their debate earlier.

Instead the silence just stretched out between the two of them, and Vidal realized that this lack of reaction was considerably worse than what he believed should have been an imminent outburst. He made to take a step back, and it his chagrin, Buckley took one step forward, his hand coming up to rest on Vidal's shoulder in an awkward touch.

Buckley tilted his head to the side, gazing at Vidal like in an almost analytical way, as if he had never seen him before. And then, without warning, Buckley righted himself again, his eyes widening in that familiar blinking look of his, a large toothy grin gracing his face.

"Now, I can't tell, least I incriminate myself as well, a calculation I'm  sure you have dutifully noted."

The grin had faded by now, and Vidal realized it had been a side effect of nervousness, as opposed to Buckley's usual cocksure one. The hand on his shoulder tightened as Buckley spoke again.

"I," he said in a near whisper, "would not be utterly opposed to a repetition of our previous engagement."

Vidal could not do anything else except nod in understanding and agreement, he supposed. The hand on his shoulder moved carefully to rest behind his head at the nape of his neck as Buckley took a tentative step forward, bringing their chests flush with one another. Vidal watched as Buckley closed his eyes, and in that moment, he looked so serene in a way that Vidal had never seen before. He let his own hands come up, one settling lightly on Buckley's waist, the other moving up to lay on his shoulder in a slight grip.

This close, he noticed the gleam of sweat that had pent up along Buckley's hairline, a light sheen coating his skin, a side effect of greasy make-up and too-bright studio lights. He let the hand on Buckley's shoulder move to touch the damp hair resting on his forehead, his fingers deftly pushing the stray strands that had fallen out of their gelled hold away. His hand snaked behind Buckley's neck, fingers tickling the hairs at his neck.

Vidal moved his face closer until their foreheads touched He took a breath and then finally closed the distance between their lips for the second time.

The change was incredibly noticeable. Buckley's dry lips, now coated with wetness, moved against his own. Rather than his former, almost nonresponsive behavior only moments ago, Buckley was surprisingly receptive to Vidal's lead, opening his lips in reaction to Vidal's urging.

Kissing William F. Buckley Jr., was not what Vidal had imagined it be like, although, he had to admit, the idea of kissing the man before him was not one he had ever been prone to envisioning in the past. But if he had to assume the reality of such an experience, he would have imagined Buckley's kiss to be as bruising as his intellectually packaged insults that he was to adept at slinging across the debate floor on his little show. He would have expected Buckley to take charge, to be so wrought with passion that he forgot himself, as he so clearly did on stage earlier. Perhaps it was just the alien nature of the situation that was making Buckley tentative, but Vidal relished in it all the same.

Vidal had backed them up against the door, Buckley's slim body pinned between the only exit and Vidal himself. Vidal was overcome with a strange sense of power, as if he held the upper hand, the flush deck of cards, in a game only he was playing within his head. Having Buckley practically submit to him was thrilling and it fueled him with a confidence he usually left reserved for the debate stage.

He moved his hand from behind Buckley's head and placed his palm flat on the door. In a quick movement, Vidal pressed himself against Buckley, closer than before, their bodies fully pushed together in the most sensual of ways, and then, Vidal undulated his hips ever so slowly but the sensation was enough. He could feel the press of Buckley's manhood against his own, neither of them close to erectness, but the growing sense of arousal was clearly evident.

Vidal did it again, this time faster and harder and, to his amazement, Buckley pulled his lips away, his head hitting against the door as a moan escaped his reddened lips. The look of pleasure, of calmness and tranquility on his face was breathtaking. Slowly, he opened his eyes, meeting Vidal in a stare neither of them could back away from. Everything had suddenly become too real. The press of Buckley's hand on his waist, the glistening of his freshly kissed lips and his perpetual blush even more pronounced.

Buckley was doing that eccentric blinking thing again, and the word "endearing" flickered through Vidal's mind. Buckley's tongue jut out to lick as his lips unconsciously and Vidal had to look away as the normally basic mannerism took on a new obscene meaning in his twisting thoughts.

Buckley felt hot, his suit jacket clinging to his skin over his button down. The room felt too small all of a sudden.  He inhaled a sharp breath as if reality was washing over him in buckets He stepped away from Vidal's touch, ignoring the voice in his head advising him otherwise.

"Vidal, I- Gore-"

"Let us-" Vidal spoke up, "Let us simply forget this entire exchange, yes? It would be for the best I think."

Buckley felt himself nod, as if agreeing on autopilot. His hands felt clammy and his throat dry.

"Yes," he heard himself response, "let us just forget." And with that, he turned and opened the door, leaving Vidal standing alone in the now empty room. He strode out, to where, he didn't know, but he had to get outside. He walked at a brisk pace, his hand coming up to touch his lips, still wet, the residue of his sinful and misguided actions. As his thumb ran across his bottom lip, he knew, deep within the confine of his darkest and most heavily fortified thoughts he knew that he would never be able to forget. 


End file.
